


The Tramp Stamp of Rassilon

by gallifreyburning



Category: Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Gen, cracktastic, short and very silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 10:52:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16831189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: Ace has an unfortunate evening at an off-planet royal wedding. Inspired bythis post by wordswithkittywitch.





	The Tramp Stamp of Rassilon

“Ace, wake up. Wake up!”

Narvin’s voice is like an icepick in Ace’s ear, the tip of his boot nudging her shoulder. She groans, eyes blinking open. Her cheek rests on an elaborate marble mosaic floor. Pushing off of her stomach and onto her knees, she squints at the daylight glaring through the stained glass palace windows and croaks, “What happened?”

“You had too much to drink at Gerent Maximillian’s wedding, and thoroughly embarrassed yourself - and me, and the CIA, and all of Gallifrey - before you passed out.” Ace didn’t think it possible, but somehow Narvin sounds more judgmental than usual. 

Her headache and her shame keep her from looking up at him yet, so she sits on her heels and hisses in pain. The skin across her lower back burns like she’s been stung by dozens of bees - which can’t have happened, this planet doesn’t have bees, at least not according to the mission briefing she read before she and Narvin came on this little trip to act as Gallifrey’s representative to this royal wedding. Why the CIA’s information department had seen fit to include that bit of entomological information is beyond Ace, but it surfaces in her aching head like a cork popping to the surface of a roiling sea. 

She’s been hungover before, but nothing like this. What the hell was in those fruity cocktails?

“I swear I only had one drink. Sorry,” she mumbles, because Narvin is her CO and she should probably be worried about how this might play in her upcoming job evaluation. She still can’t bring herself to look at him - partially out of shame, partially because the light in this room makes her want to curl into a ball and die. She reaches around to rub at the painful spot just above her tailbone. An involuntary hiss escapes through her teeth - _fuck_ , it hurts.

“We’ll have a discussion about _that_ when we’re back onboard my TARDIS and heading for home,” Narvin says. 

“Discussion about what? What is it?” Ace asks, pushing to her feet and twisting around. This formal frock she’s wearing is backless, and she catches a glimpse of some black marks on her skin. “What did they do to me?”

“You did it to yourself,” Narvin replies dryly. “Gerent Maximillian keeps a tattoo artist on retainer - you’ll remember that bit, about the wedding tattoos, from your mission briefing? Apparently you availed yourself of the tattoo artist’s services, last night.”

Ace squints, willing her vision to clear. She has a vague memory of lying on her stomach while the most beautiful orange-skinned alien she’d ever seen pulled her backless dress down, and waved some kind of buzzing metal device across her skin. 

She groans. “Oh god. What is it? What is the tattoo of?”

“It says ‘Rassilon’s Bitch,’ or ‘Rassilon’s a Bitch,’ I can’t quite read it. The penmanship leaves something to be desired,” Narvin replies. He’s probably lifting a sardonic eyebrow, but Ace is still too ashamed to look at him. “In either case, it’s blasphemy.”

“I got tramp stamp about _Rassilon_?” Ace tries not to shriek, but doesn’t quite succeed.

“While technically on the CIA clock. You do realize that I’ll have to make note of this incident in your employment file,” Narvin says. Ace finally summons the courage to look up at him, to gauge how much shit she’ll have to deal with on the ride back to Gallifrey. 

The first thing she notices is his wildly rumpled CIA robe, which draws another memory from her hungover brain: Narvin had at least four of those fruity cocktails, while Ace only had one. The last time she saw him, the night before, he’d been dancing on a table with the bride. 

Her gaze finally reaches his face and she immediately makes the most undignified, uncontrolled squawk - something between a snort of laughter and a nauseous heave. She swallows the sour sound, struggling to get a grip on her facial expression, clamping her lips between her teeth to stop herself from losing it completely. 

Narvin has a sparkling, rainbow-colored Seal of Rassilon tattoo covering a quarter of his face, from his hairline all the way to his cheek. When he blinks, the tattoo is complete across his left eyelid. 

“What is it? Do you have something else to say, Agent Ace? Are you really going to dig this hole deeper for yourself?” Narvin snaps, as if she’s the one still in trouble. He obviously hasn’t a clue of what his face looks like, at the moment. 

“No, sir,” she manages, barely a peep of sound. “Nothing at all. You’re right, we should go home immediately. Let’s not even stop to clean up first. Your TARDIS is in the ballroom, yeah? Coordinator Romana is anxiously awaiting our return, we should go directly to speak with her about the mission, don’t you think?”

His expression lightens a fraction, as he realizes she doesn’t plan to give him any more back-talk. He lifts an eyebrow, and the round Seal morphs into an egg shape. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said since we left Gallifrey. Come along, Ace.” 

She shuffles alongside him to the TARDIS. “Before we land, you ought to tell me all the disciplinary action I’ll face for this kind of inappropriate behavior. I’d like to know what I have coming.”

“If you think humility will spare you any of your consequences, think again. Firstly, this will be a permanent mark on your record,” he says. “But that’s just the beginning. We can’t gloss over this kind of behavior.”

“Perfect,” Ace says. “Please go on. Don’t spare any details.”


End file.
